A/N: Chapter warnings for: violence, explicit language, depictions of self-harm, prejudice (magical onto muggles), period-typical homophobia, stealing, ** Graphic depiction of a suicide attempt ** (look at endnotes if you will as if you should be explicitly warned about this)
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Chapter Thirty-six
...
"Oh God, what's wrong with me? Why does nothing ever work out?"
-Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones's Diary
…
It takes Harry almost forty minutes to fully fall asleep.
Draco gazes out the windows, his eyes bleary with exhaustion but his heart racing whenever he thinks about Harry, ramming his forearm into the rusted nail. It's an image that's been playing over and over again in his head since last night, a background white noise that is anything but soothing. He can't relax, he can never relax.
He won't let himself sleep, he will absolutely not do such a thing, even though his body is begging him for an escape from the throbbing of his blistered feet, and the pang in his shoulder, and even though there's a steady, growing ache behind his eyes.
Draco will not sleep. Instead, he clutches Harry's arm as tightly as he dares without disturbing his sleep and just thinks.
He just thinks.
It's a jumble, in his head. He misses his parents. He misses the shell-encrusted walls of the cottage and he misses Benji and Lester and Kats. He misses the pleasant combination of soap and spice-like smell that always seemed to come from Harry but has now all but disappeared under the blood and filth.
Harry sleeps in his arms. Nothing happens, nothing happens, and Draco cries, and holds Harry tight, and just keeps thinking.
Fuck everything.
July, 1938
He was feared.
From patrons and children alike, I could see the way their complexions paled as I uttered his name. Genuine uneasiness bled into their eyes.
I didn't check their minds. I wanted the first impression I got from the boy to be as authentic as possible. Muggles feared magic in its purest form. I wasn't anxious about it.
The orphanage itself was in an adequate condition, the building a bit too morbid, and the patrons trying their best with the scraped-off budget.
"Sorry for the smell," the elderly woman said to me as we were ascending the stairs, "we're having someone come fix the pipes."
I was pleasant to her, and she was too timid. Not intimidated by my presence, but rather our destination.
"He is not in a good mood today I'm afraid, sir," she nervously chuckled as we approached the ajar door.
"Tom? Somebody is here to meet you."
"Albus Dumbledore." I smiled down at him, "Nice to meet you, Tom."
He looked normal, if only a bit sallow. His voice was low but certain, and his eyes were like a serpent's, narrowed, and green and malicious.
"I can talk to the garden snakes," he had said impassively, "is that normal too?"
I did not have an answer for him.
Someone is kissing him, Harry feels it, the delicate, fluttery touch of lips on his forehead, grazing his scar. A smile unwittingly tugs at his lips and he hums. This is very nice. No one has ever kissed him awake before.
"Hey," the voice whispers and there's another kiss, and Harry remembers that they're on the run, stranded in the streets and exhausted beyond measure, but he smiles. He keeps his eyes closed, just for a moment longer. He can afford to pretend a moment longer.
"Hey," he mutters back and Draco smiles down at him, they're alone in the store, and brutal beams of light shine through. It's later in the morning than he'd thought it would be, but Draco doesn't look concerned.
He just looks like he hasn't slept a wink.
"Why do you look like that?" Harry asks before he can stop himself, his fingers slip out of Draco's to the dramatically pronounced dip of his dark circles. Draco draws away a bit. He looks as bad as Harry feels. And Harry actually slept.
"Look like what?" Draco asks.
"Like you hadn't slept at all."
Draco shrugs, looking unbothered. "I did. It must be a 'being-on-the-run' thing." He smirks, "Not a good look on me."
He waits for Harry to cackle back at him but he doesn't. He's worried. Nightmares? Is that what kept Draco awake? Harry doesn't think Draco finds Muggles scary enough to lose sleep over them, especially invisible muggles who don't even bother entering a laundry store in a nondescript town.
"Draco."
"I'm fine," he says, a little hastily, Harry notices.
"Come on, we should be on the move."
Harry opens his mouth, to press further, then closes it again.
Draco has a new sweater on. Harry has a coat.
He pulls his hand out of Draco's and runs it over the coat. It doesn't fit very well, but it's warm and worn soft, large on the shoulders and his scrawny frame but not overly so. One of the buttons is missing.
"Where did this come from?"
Draco takes a long moment to respond. "I found them."
Harry doesn't believe him.
"Draco-"
"I did!" He exclaims, "Some moron had left them in one of the giant machines, back in that other place."
"So you stole them."
Harry is not really comfortable with that idea. Some poor muggle leaves their belongings and then finds them gone. He rarely had anything to displace as a child, but the feeling wasn't pleasant.
Draco glares, "No. I found them there. And I took it because if they needed it as much, they wouldn't have abandoned them." His fists are clenched and he's shivering ever so slightly, despite the new sweater. Or rather, as technicality begs, an old stolen sweater.
Then his face softens, and Harry can't just be mad at that face, "I'm sorry," Draco mumbles, "but we really need to stay warm."
But they're not warm. Harry is. He's the one who has a coat. Draco only has a sweater and an agitated shoulder to show for it.
"You don't have a coat," he says, and guilt churns in his stomach. He doesn't know what he's more guilty for, which makes him feel worse.
Draco rolls his eyes, "I'll be fine."
Harry leans forward instead of replying and grabs Draco's face, his thumb runs over his scar, now a faded pink. Harry supposes that it won't really improve more than this, seeing as Draco has no ointment to use for it anymore.
Draco leans into his hand with closed eyes, and Harry leans up for a tiny peck. He's found, in the span of the last twenty-four hours, how much he adores kissing Draco, "We'll head north," he whispers, "and probably stop in the next town, Mitcham."
He's made a small mental list of all the places they needed to pass. From here to Mitcham is quite a few miles. Tattershall is just so far away. And they do need to stay warm.
In retrospect, he knows what he feels more guilty for.
"We can walk more," Draco argues and Harry drops his hand.
"Past Mitcham, probably," he says, but knows that they probably can't make it that far today. His feet hurt. Draco's feet most probably hurt. He doesn't even have a coat. He hasn't gone hungry for days before like Harry has. He doesn't know how to deal with starvation and thirst.
Harry needs to take care of him.
Draco's eyes are staring into his, and Harry shakes his head. "We'll see, but you need to be warm too."
"Harry, I'm not the one with the…"
Harry huffs, and fists his hands. They burn in pins and needles, but he doesn't care. He hates this, he hates his hands, his nerves. He hates that they're here right now when they could have been back at the cottage. Warm and safe and together.
He could have kissed him back then, instead of running out. Because it turns out, not kissing Draco put him in way more danger than the alternative could have. Harry wouldn't have been kidnapped. Draco wouldn't have injured his shoulder. He could have been normal.
"My nerves and I are just fine," he forces himself to smile through his self-loathing. "as long as you don't freeze like a popsicle."
He can handle the cold. He deserves the cold. Cold is his punishment, for endangering Draco, and for their current predicament.
Draco doesn't deserve this.
'You could have kissed him back,' Sirius' voice comes from behind them. 'Why are you doing it now, if you didn't do it then?'
Well, because Harry is selfish. Because all he ever does is take, and take and take.
Draco tilts his head at him, he looks worried, like he knows what Harry is thinking. "Once we get out of the crowd," he promises with a kiss.
Harry adores those lips on his. He loves it so much that he might just cry. He doesn't even feel guilty because it just feels so good. "You can put on the cloak," he says when they pull away from each other.
He wonders whether it's the kiss itself, or Draco kissing him that makes it so wonderful. The closest he's ever come to kisses was Molly Weasley plopping a chaste peck on his cheeks after a nice, cozy hug upon every meeting.
This is different. It's electrifying, it makes something in Harry's chest sing. 'Do it more, do it again, do it harder,' it says. And Harry is more than happy to oblige it.
They could have done this at the beach. In their bed. On the couch or on the porch. His heart clenches when he thinks about all the things they could be doing right now. All the fucking possibilities.
Instead, they're here, in a laundry store. Wearing stolen clothes, hungry, and being hunted. The other Death Eaters wouldn't be too glad that Rosier was found dead. That he got away.
If they get their hands on Harry again… he shudders. He's almost afraid of them, more than he is of Voldemort. It's ridiculous.
"Harry…"
He wouldn't let them take Draco again. If it came to it. It's a mental promise that he means to uphold. Those assholes won't touch Draco.
"It's not that cold."
Harry frowns, "You will put on the cloak, once we get out of the crowd," he gently pats Draco's good shoulder, "It's freezing out there."
It's in the middle of fucking November.
"Alright," Draco replies, but it just seems like he wants Harry to stop talking about it. Harry can fight about it all day, but he chooses to delay this one until they are actually out of this town.
Draco's cold hand travels down Harry's hip, to grab his hand, his fingers are brushing Harry's knuckles.
It's crowded outside, more crowded than the other place was yesterday, and people start giving them weird looks straight away. Harry squirms but tries his best to ignore them. They do look like homeless people, and it'll be no use, jeering back at these people. Draco- rather unfortunately- doesn't have the same resolve, and sneers back at every pedestrian leering away from them.
They stick to the sidewalks, and keep their rapid pace. They don't make any stops, and there's a silent, unspoken agreement between the both of them to get out of here as fast as possible. A crowd is not their friend.
Harry occupies Draco with nonsense talk and random facts, as many as he could remember, from "seahorses bonding for life," to "muggles discovering alcohol". All to distract Draco from the looks they're getting.
He doesn't want the other boy to feel self-conscious about his face. Well, they both look like hell, but Draco probably didn't take that into account. He is very tentative about his scar, and now that there's not just the two of them anymore, it's sticking out like a sore thumb.
Harry wants to tell him that it doesn't matter, that the scar doesn't disfigure him in any way, and the muggles giving them judgmental looks can go fuck themselves, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to make Draco more sensitive to it. There's no use rubbing salt over a scabbed wound.
So facts it is.
He used to read them from this book he kind of stole from his primary school's library. He used to hide there from Dudley a lot. He remembers vividly, the day he found the book, Simpson's book of fact, truth, and reason, right near his feet. He bent to pick it up and just started from a random page.
He barely noticed the day passing. He took the book with him, smuggled under his too large shirt, and opened it up in his cupboard again.
With a tiny finger, and narrowed eyes, he remembers reading: 'A single strand of Spaghetti is called a "Spaghetto"'
He's about to open his mouth and tell Draco now, but just then he sees a muggle man approaching from afar. His eyes were maliciously fixated on them both, and Draco was too busy with their bag's strap to notice.
He looks like a threat.
Harry's shoulders tense as the man draws nearer and shoulders past them, "faggots," he says and Harry stumbles to a halt.
"What happened?" Draco asks, looking up from the bag, but Harry isn't looking at him, his eyes are gazing at the man over his shoulder.
Faggot.
That was not what he was expecting.
Harry remembers hearing that term before. He hadn't paid it much attention before. He'd long, long since stopped paying attention to what the Dursleys said about whatever people. By then, he actually thought more favourably about the people the Dursleys had actively disliked.
But he does remember hearing it before, and he does remember what it had meant.
"Harry?" Draco squeezes Harry's hand, follows his gaze as Harry glances down at their conjoined hands.
'oh fuck,' Sirius mutters.
This isn't as okay with muggles as it is with wizards, is it? Harry's grown too comfortable in their views, in the snug little world, in the delusion of it all, that he had forgotten that there was a whole other world out there too.
A world, in which they were trapped.
"Oh." He says, and something ugly and wild twists in his chest. The looks they've been getting make a lot more sense now.
It's not just the fact that they look homeless and beaten up, not that Draco's face is scarred or that they're in stolen clothes. It's because they were holding hands. Because they're…
Harry lets go of Draco's hand, lets his own limply fall to his side as Draco looks at him with worried eyes.
"We need to talk," he tells him, but he has no idea how he should explain something like this to Draco. He wouldn't understand. Well, Harry bites his lip, maybe he would.
Prejudice is prejudice, no matter what cloak it wears.
"What's wrong?" Draco asks and Harry starts walking again, rapidly, their shoes click against the damp cobblestones. They get a plethora of other looks as they pass people. This time for a whole different reason.
"Draco we need to… blend in," Harry starts with a meek voice, he doesn't want others hearing this. Causing a scene is the last thing they need right now.
Draco slightly pales, "I can cover my face…"
Harry wants to cry.
"No…" he slowly says, there's bile threatening to rise up in his throat. "That's not what I meant, I just… I just don't think holding hands in a place with these many people is a good idea."
Draco looks rightfully clueless. His eyebrows rise above his hairline and his eyes slightly widen. Harry gulps and fastens his already rapid pace. They're almost running now. It probably makes them look even more incriminating. He can't stop.
What is he even running from? The muggles? Draco? The resentful voice in his head that keeps whacking on his skull?
"Why fucking not?" Draco demands.
Harry winces, then crosses his arms against his chest to fight down the urge to grab Draco by his shoulders and kiss him all over, just to get back at that muggle asshole who thought he mattered.
Harry couldn't care less if anyone gave him any shit for being with another boy. What he cares about, first and foremost, is those muggles calling out Draco for something he shouldn't feel sorry to be.
This isn't wrong, what they have. It's beautiful and tentative and theirs. Muggles do not understand that. Harry is not even sure the wizarding world would understand.
No one does. No one ever could even begin to try understanding, the intimacy with which Harry's mind has latched onto Draco's soul.
Much less these muggles. They're already a target here.
"It irritates the muggles," he tells Draco, who's trying to keep up with Harry. He doesn't touch Harry, he doesn't ask him to slow down, but he looks so conflicted.
"Irritate the muggles?" Draco sneers, "what do you mean? Are they allergic to hand-holding?"
Harry stops. They're at a boulevard now, and the lights are green. Commotion swarms around them. It's nearly mid-day, and he's so hungry and tired and he knows Draco is a hundred times worse. The sun peaks blearily through the dense clouds.
He takes a deep breath, "They're allergic to homosexuals."
Draco just stares at him. "Are you being serious?"
Harry wants to say no, so badly. "I wish I was joking, I really am. But they could be very mean about it and I don't want you to… go through that. I'm sorry."
Their neighbors' faces came before his eyes, the kind men, standing in their own yard as Vernon laid his barrage of slimy hate and contempt upon them, while Harry eavesdropped from the Dursleys' shed, shaking like a leaf.
He can't remember when they left, but he only remembers seeing them that one time. It must have been quick. And brutal. But that was the suburbs. Quick and brutal.
The lights turn red, and one by one cars come to a stop in their lanes. There's only two or three on each side.
Draco looks absolutely furious.
"They're... they're like worms!" He exclaims, there's a frown creasing his forehead, "They have the intellectual capacity of an insect, and they're irritated by gay people?"
A woman walking nearby, gives them a wary look and hurries away. Harry and Draco both glare at her back.
"Harry…"
"They're not all like that, Draco," his voice is barely convincing, even to himself. He hugs himself tighter. He feels undeserving of the coat, and the bandages, and everything that Draco did for him. This is farcical, he doesn't deserve any of it, but they need to lay low.
"Draco."
"Are you defending them? Those mud-"
"No." He cuts in before Draco can utter that awful, acrimonious word. He fucking hates that slur. "Do not say that. Please just don't call them that."
Some part of him wants to call Draco on it, tell him that he was the one lowering himself and being prejudiced against people. How could he be so righteously angry at muggles, when he calls them that himself? He is just as wrong as they are.
Harry wants to bring it up so badly. He wants it resolved right now, because the mere thought of dating Draco Malfoy was untouched and unimaginable once. The thought of Draco finally coming to his senses is not so unimaginable anymore.
But a few muggles are already watching them, and Draco is way too agitated for this conversation. It can wait, Harry tells himself.
"You know I'm not defending them. But we need to lay low, okay?" He drops his arms by his side, "We're already attracting enough attention with our appearances as it is," he waves a hand over themselves, very careful not to indicate Draco's face or his scar, and only their dirty, stolen clothing and hair, "If they find us again... let's just not pass through crowded places."
Draco whips his head away with a grunt, "Fine."
"Is everything alright with you dears?" An elderly woman asks them, one of the onlooking muggles, as the others disperse. She, unlike the others, doesn't keep her distance from them. She has a grocery basket hanging off her arm, and a green woolen hat.
Her eyes are crinkling with concern. She looks like a kind woman. Comforting. Harry swallows.
"Yes ma'am. Thank you."
He prays that she just takes it and goes. Harry and Draco need to be better at this. At hiding. Cleaning up.
They've washed up at Barnes Green, they are wearing stolen clothes, but they still pretty much look like shit. Suspicious shits.
"Oh you don't look too good, sweetie," she's aiming her words at Draco, but Draco is pointedly looking away from her with a jeer.
Harry scrambles in front of the woman, "Oh it's nothing," he forces a chuckle, "We… were just playing ball."
The woman coos with a small laugh, "Oh, roughing around then? You boys must not be from here, Leatherhead lads don't just let anyone on the team."
Harry's eyes shift to the red lights and then back at the woman again, "We're not. Um… Mitcham. That's where we are from."
"Mitcham! Lovely place!"
Harry might just cry if he expands his forced smile any further, "It is! Sorry, but we need to… our parents are waiting for me…" he pauses momentarily, "and my brother."
Draco makes a small sound from his side, but Harry does not falter.
The old woman looks like she wants to reach over and pinch his cheek fondly, but holds off, instead she reaches into her grocery bag for two chocolate bars. Harry opens his mouth to protest but she hushes him with her hand.
"You lads look like you need a bit of refreshment after that game!" She passes the bars with a grin. Something about it is so gut-wrenchingly genuine. And Harry feels awful about lying to her.
"Thank you. Are you sure, ma'am?" he says, and Draco is now looking at them both with a blank expression on his face.
Her nose scrunches when she smiles. A nice scrunch. She's pleasant. "Oh, don't mention it! My nephews have plenty of these back home," she pats his arm and Draco draws closer to Harry, "You boys bring yourselves some better snacks for games huh? Mitcham is a far way to go without food."
Draco blankly observes the woman's hand on Harry's arm and he wants to roll his eyes. Draco is being too protective. Or rather territorial. Harry doesn't care which.
"Thank you," he says, this time with a heartfelt smile and squeezes the woman's arm with his free hand. She notices the trembling, her brows pinching just a bit, but then turns away with a meek nod.
The light turns green at last.
Harry stuffs the chocolate bars in his coat pocket, grabs Draco by the sleeve of his sweater, because the blonde seems awfully nervous around streets and cars, and drags them across.
Draco doesn't pull his arm away once they dodge a mother with a screaming toddler in her arms.
"What was that?" He asks.
"She gave us food."
He rolls his eyes at him. "Me and my brother?" Disdain colors every word. Harry winces, his fingers trace the chocolate bars nestled next to his wand. The irony is not lost on him. How two chocolate bars are literally worth more than his wand. It's useless now.
"I mean…" he shrugs and lets go of the sleeve, "We could be brothers."
"What?"
Draco looks so insulted by the notion that Harry feels slightly taken aback. It's not as if he really wants them to take the role of siblings. It's just a ploy.
Harry squirms all the same, "If people ask. I mean, we could pose as brothers, to avoid suspicions."
"Brothers?" Draco exclaims in a hushed voice, "Why are you forcing us into an incestuous relationship?"
Dear God in heaven, Harry rolls his eyes. He's treating this as if him and Draco making out now would be a crime. It's not new, feeling frustrated by Draco, but it's… different since. Well. Since everything. But this is a different kind of agitation. There's no heat behind it, just… mild annoyance.
"I can't kiss you assuming the role of your fucking brother-"
"That's not even the point!" They steer left, the crowd is getting lighter and lighter and the buildings less. They're getting closer to the edge of the town, "We know we're not related."
"We look nothing alike."
"They're not gonna ask us why we don't…" he trails off. He is so exhausted all of a sudden. Of everything.
Draco crosses his arms with a wince. His shoulder still seems to be bothering him a lot. "I'm not a fan of this plan."
'This is your responsibility,' Sirius says, he's an intermittent presence, going and leaving at random. Harry halts to a stop, 'You need to get yourself together.'
Harry turns to Draco, and withdraws his hand from his pocket. He waits for the other boy to finally yield and turn to him before grabbing his hands. They're cold, and his fingers clench around Harry's.
Draco's been launched from the only life he knew, his comfort zone, into an entirely different world, with no weapon, no way to defend himself, having no idea how to interact with muggles for the simplest things. All because of Harry.
'Not because of you.'
"Harry?"
Harry snaps back to the present. They're holding hands, Draco looks a bit peeved. Right. No going away. Harry promised him.
"I'm sorry, I know." He swallows, "I know this sucks, really. I don't want to hide my… I want us to be able to be with each other, now that we can. But I also know that… I don't want us to get in trouble again."
Draco sighs, it's long and frustrated and everything Harry is feeling with a hint of fear. Draco is afraid for them. Harry isn't afraid yet, just resigned.
He has to adapt. Adapting is the first rule of survival.
It doesn't make the gap in his chest any better, but it's the dictum Harry's lived with all his life.
"We made a mistake," Draco says, "passing right through the town. From now on, we should avoid people altogether."
Harry can be okay for him. If he were alone right now, all by himself, he would have just given up. He would have given up a long time ago. But Draco is here, and Harry has to be enough for him.
He hugs Draco, and feels as if they don't do that enough. Their bodies shouldn't be a perfect fit, but they are to Harry. His head fits right against Draco's chest.
Not quite resting on the sweater, but barely grazing it. He doesn't want to inadvertently hurt Draco's shoulder. Cause him pain.
Harry always causes others pain.
Draco's good arm hesitantly wraps around his.
"I'm sorry," Harry mutters into the stolen woolen jumper. Draco's fingers trace his back, and he can barely feel it through the coat, but it's there.
No one has ever touched him like this.
Hugs, he's gotten plenty from Ron, Hermione, and others alike. But no one has ever… done it like this. In his mind, it's like being touched by the sun. Not the actual sun, but tiny invisible fingers of the sun. Reaching out for a caress.
"Do you want chocolate?" He mutters into the fabric.
Draco's chin drops on his head, then his nose tips and he breathes Harry in, "It's gonna be okay, Harry," he replies. He inhales so deeply that Harry kind of wonders if Draco wants to sniff his thoughts right out of his brain.
Harry never wants to let him go.
"Yeah, I hope so too."
They squeeze hands, one last time.
Draco convinces Harry to take a nerve soother with his chocolate bar. Harry does the same for him with a pain reliever. Neither of them is happy about it.
They're on the road once more, and tall pine trees loom over them, lush and a shade of dark green that almost resembles black.
Draco's feet hurt so much that he can't even feel them anymore. The ache in his shoulder has been reduced to a dull burning but he detests it. He knows that dullness will fade eventually.
They only have three vials of pain relievers left.
Two more nerve soothers.
Draco has no fucking idea what he is going to do once they run out. He can't brew any with no supplies, and Harry definitely needs those in this cold.
He wonders if stealing gloves would be too far-fetched and too lucky a catch for him.
Since the cars are scarce, and they're not actually walking in the road, but rather following it behind the endless rows of sturdy trees, Harry convinces him to put on the cloak.
"It's really cold," Harry says as he helps Draco into the stiff robe. Some patches have been hardened by dried blood, and the metallic odor wafts in a twirl with the brisk coldness.
It burns right through his nostrils, but Harry is right. It's so cold.
They can hold hands here, and Harry's lip is twisted down. He's not away, Draco can tell now, but maybe he wishes he was away.
He doesn't feel great about taking Harry's escape away, he knows that sometimes Harry needs it, but he wouldn't be able to take it if he went away like that. Not after what happened in the barn, not with the constant panic thrumming within. Not until this… this thing was over. So, he just squeezes Harry's hand to get his attention.
"Knut for your thoughts?" Draco smirks at him, and Harry's eyes instantly whip around to meet his.
"There was a woman," he says, looking down at his boots. Rosier's boots that Draco transfigured for him that night.
Harry pauses, "Did you see her too? Before, Rosier died, I mean."
He means Valentina. A morbid chill unceremoniously runs down his spine, but Draco won't let it take hold.
Harry's eyes haunt him from that night, glassy and unseeing as stale tears ran down his face, staring right at them. Him and Valentina.
'He is not well,' she had told him.
"Oh, her." Draco can see her face still, pinched with irritation, her lip curled, and her brows furrowed.
He didn't think Harry would remember. Come to think of it, they haven't discussed Harry's kidnapping even once since the rescue. They have been busy dealing with much more pressing matters. Draco hasn't been avoiding it, mostly, it's Harry who never brought up the subject. Not even how Draco found him. His eyes flicker down to Harry's wrist, where the shell necklace is wrapped around like a bracelet.
Draco had done that after that night. He couldn't risk Harry strangling himself. A simple explanation about it looking better that way had sufficed. Harry hadn't questioned him. He had a similar one on his own wrist, after all.
"So you saw her," Draco replies after a small beat.
"Who was she?" Harry asks, looking ahead at the trail. He looks as if he wants to materialize Valentina's body right in front of them by Draco's descriptions.
Which is a scary thought. She is a scary woman.
"She is the most dangerous woman I know in my life." There is no denying it.
Because amongst the women that Draco has known since childhood, Valentina falls into the 'sane but psychopathic' category, whereas his aunt, and other death eater women are just plain psychopaths.
She knows what she is doing. That's what makes her dangerous. She knows and she still does it.
"Valentina Parkinson."
Harry stops and looks at him, "Parkinson—"
Oh. He doesn't know. Draco forgets sometimes, Harry doesn't know the same things that he does. It feels like he's been living in Draco's head since the beginning of time.
"Pansy's mom… well, one of her moms." He shrugs, then winces, "I don't get to see Selene much."
Rather, Valentina doesn't want anyone to see Selene much. Draco must have only seen the woman twice. And he's heard things, of course, from Pansy.
Pansy idolizes her parents, to an extent that Draco used to understand before. Not now that he knows how flawed both his parents are. She's still starstruck by them.
Well, Draco might have been too. If his parents were the dark lord's assassins.
Harry slowly nods his head, "Okay, but what was she doing there? She wasn't dressed in Death Eater robes."
"She is the dark lord's mercenary, she doesn't need death eater robes. I used to hear horror stories about her as a kid."
Harry makes a surprised sound, but Draco shrugs again, "Everyone is scared of her. Once, I heard that she butchered an entire hall of traitors with a butter knife, then collected their blood in jars and presented it to… him."
That's the only story not necessarily involving muggles. Draco has heard many about those, but he doesn't think Harry would appreciate it. Blood traitors are less victimized in Harry's eyes than muggles.
Harry snorts. "That can't be true."
Draco raises his eyebrows at him, "It could be and you'll know it the instant you meet her."
"I have met her."
Draco ignores him.
"She is his butcher. The knight, rather. She spoke to me once, during a dinner party and I almost pissed my pants on the spot. We don't want to mess with her."
Her eyes were like black beads. He remembers that one instance to this day. Her eyes, unnervingly on his across the dinner table, while Selene, her alluring wife, talked with Mother.
"What did she say to you?" Harry leans against his side with a teasing smile.
Draco's heart constricts.
'He is not well.'
"Draco?"
He clears his throat, "Pass me the salt, boy."
She did say that. Eight years ago.
Pass me the salt, boy.
She didn't even use it once Draco shakingly gestured at the damn house elf to hand her the salt.
Harry snorts again, "That does sound scary."
"Oh, it was."
"If she works for him, then why didn't she kill me?"
"I don't know," he says quietly. That's the thing he fears the most about all this. He doesn't know. He doesn't know what her motives are for helping them. To put it plainly and simply, she is the Knight. She works for the Dark Lord. She's his assassin and she should have either killed Harry or taken him back to Voldemort. She should've killed Draco too, while she was at it. What he doesn't know can get them killed or worse. She's an unknown variable.
Harry stares at him, before speaking just as softly, "She killed him right in front of my eyes."
"Yeah, well, he deserved to die." Draco pauses, "That was probably ordered by the Dark Lord himself. He wasn't supposed to take you the first time. You saw what he did to him then."
Harry makes a face, "Well, right. Yeah, but… why not me?"
Draco has been thinking that too. A lot more than Harry knows. Harry doesn't quite understand the gravity of Valentina's importance and intimidation. That's okay, in fact, Draco really prefers he didn't know either.
"She has her own rules." It's not even untrue, he thinks. While she does work for Voldemort, and while she is a valued member and even has the Dark Mark. Well, the fact that she doesn't even wear the Death Eater robes speaks for itself, doesn't it?
"What if she comes after us later?"
"Her job is hunting people. Trust me, if she wanted us dead, we would have been dead within the hour we escaped."
She doesn't. For whatever reason, she's more worried about the siege than Harry's death.
A siege. The siege that might as well be underway a week from now, or maybe a day, or maybe just hours.
It could be happening right now and they wouldn't know.
Draco gazes down at Harry again. He's glad they're not involved in any of it. If they were, Harry would be right in the center of it all. The cardinal piece.
Draco wants him right on the sidelines, safe, and here and alive.
He'll make sure it'll stay that way. He won't let Rosier's grudge hurt Harry. He wouldn't get a blink of sleep if it meant Harry would be safe.
"So she's his bloodhound."
Draco kind of smiles, but he can't be quite sure. His face is numb. "She does use blood in her tracking, ironically enough."
Instead of having the soothing effect Draco was aiming for, Harry looks even more panicked.
He stops, "Hey, hey Harry,"
"I'm fine."
"No, look at me," and Harry does, reluctantly, "As long as we don't leave a magical trail behind, we'll be fine." He squeezes Harry's shoulder, "We just need to make it to Slughorn's."
They have to make it there before Death Eaters catch up with them, because they will, at some point. Valentina is not going to keep her mouth shut forever.
Harry looks unsure, "I don't know any of these people."
Well, Draco can actually do something about that.
"I saw Slughorn through Severus," he says as they start walking again, "He used to babysit me a lot back in the days, he took me over to Slughorn a few times. For his potion apprenticeship."
Draco barely remembers bits and pieces of that period of his life. He has wisps and images, of a tall, younger version of his godfather holding his hand, gently walking him in unfamiliar streets. He remembers a potions lab, and Severus with his brows frowned, and his sleeves rolled up, intensely focused on the bubbling cauldron underneath his fingers while Draco played with his stuffed bumblebee toy in the corner.
Slughorn can get them, and more importantly, Harry, to Severus. Even if he can't help Harry with the curse, Severus and Dumbledore might.
If, of course, his alliances don't lie with the Dark Lord. Draco doesn't particularly think they do, since he hasn't heard of the man at all since the dark lord came to their manor and the dungeons started filling up.
Slughorn has to be safe, because if he's not, then Draco doesn't know what he's going to do.
Harry hums beside him, "So he's a potion master?"
"I think so," Draco mutters, he can still somewhat see the shadow of the man, and his godfather's determined face, "I was young, I don't even remember his face anymore."
"We'll go to Slughorn," Harry says, but he doesn't say why. Because Draco never told him why. And Harry is not asking.
Harry doesn't ask why they're going there. Why him and not someone else. Why not his friends, why not the ministry.
Draco waits for it, with bated breath. But Harry never asks, just thoughtfully hums again and they move on.
There's something wrong. Well, more wrong with him.
He's getting more forgetful, and it's chewing up Draco from the inside.
It's cold.
It's so fucking cold.
But of course it is. It's fucking snowing.
They don't stop for a break, they don't stop. Period. The walking, as tedious and painful as it is, is keeping them warmer than any amount of rest would. Draco's fingers are on the verge of frostbite, curled around Harry's waist as they trudge through the unsteady terrain.
The ground is unstable, unruly roots, and frozen patches of water make for a very slippery trek, and it's not as if the roads are any better, coated with a thin, slushy layer of snow and ice, unprotected from the hail, uncovered and bared in the absence of trees that somewhat shield Harry and Draco against the worst of it.
Draco can't quite see how it can be worse than this. He has never, in his life, despised the cold so much.
Harry's hands are deep in the pockets of his coat, his head tilted down to somewhat avoid the full blast of the blizzard. Their breaths, panting really, results in hushed puffs of foggy air, one after another, like smoke.
"D-Draco," Harry huffs, then pointedly glances down at Draco's freezing fingers, his teeth are chattering, "pocket."
Draco opens his mouth to protest, because the only thing keeping Harry from face-planting is positively Draco's hand, but Harry gives him a dirty look, and slowly retracts his own hand out of his pocket.
With jerky movements, his fingers pry Draco's off his waist, and he quickly shoves them aside. "Pocket," he pants again, then curls his fingers in a tense fist and stuffs it back in the coat.
Draco huffs, glares, and sneers, but finally yields. A strong gust of wind blasts into their faces, and Draco bows down, his hands rigid in the cloak's pockets. And he stills.
Something is in his pocket.
He stays bowed, his numb fingers running over the worn leather pouch. "Fuck," he breathes.
Harry turns to look at him, but Draco is grappling for the fucking pouch, hoping, praying, cursing it to be what he thinks it is.
He draws out the pouch, it's the same worn, brown leather one that he remembers. Both from childhood, and also the time he nicked it off Severus that night in his office.
It seemed so long ago, that first night, stricken with grief, raiding his godfather's potion kit for Potter's ridiculous ailment.
'One day, when you are older, I'll buy you a proper potions kit,' Severus had told him once. Draco was so young.
He used to idolize the man so much. He put him, and his own parents on such a high pedestal.
'If I find you tangled in an undesirable situation, which puts you in danger, be it physical or mental, I will not hesitate to put a stop to it.'
It's hilarious how true that turned out to be.
He opens the pouch, unfolds the layers, and then looks at the vials, kept firm in their holster, three lilac-colored ones, pain relievers, two bright red ones that were blood replenishers, dittany, and one mint-colored which he hasn't seen in such a long time. It's a pepper-up.
Draco is so happy he could cry.
He unlatches the holster, and fumbles with the vial, "Drink half- drink half of this," he stutters, uncorking the vial. Harry looks at him, then at the potion and him again.
"Harry!"
He nods, and then leans back against a tree behind them both, Draco holds onto the vial even as Harry's fingers close around his. He chokes and makes a face, but looks instantly warmed up. Steam starts coming out of his ears and Harry smiles with relief.
Draco doesn't hesitate to empty the rest of the vial in his throat, and perhaps he shouldn't have been so hasty with their only vial of pepper up. But how much worse than actually fucking snowing could it get? And with the relief on Harry's face, in his own body, he can't really bring himself to care.
With the warmth that comes as immediate relief, Draco feels a mixture of guilt and love churning in his guts. As much as he hates Severus, and as much as he detests the man for what he did to his mother, and him, and Harry, he closes his eyes, and mutters a blessing.
Because fuck Severus for being an inadequate human being, and godfather, but bless him for being such a fucking worrywart with foresight who's good at making potions.
"We need to go," Harry says, still with a smile, and Draco nods.
There's a peculiar sound gravel makes when under uncertain feet. As if it's squirming, all that debris, the little limestone fragments, the minuscule rocks.
They roll, meaningless detriments, not when it truly counts.
Harry loves the sound, and when he looks down the harrowing rooftop, when he feels the wind, ever so gently pushing him forward, it is then that the gravel counts.
He loves the view. He always has. It's always sunny, but there are clouds, the wind is pleasant, and under his feet, there are the dots, passing by as always. There's no pain, there's no terror or anxiety.
He's not a freak here. He's just Harry.
Harry raises his arms, as habit compels, and closes his eyes. Only God knows how much he's missed this. Well, even God wouldn't. Only Harry did. And he sure as hell as missed this.
The intimacy of being alone. The bliss that comes with being the only person who can judge him.
Harry closes his eyes, breathes in and out, in a tandem with the beat of things. The gravel under his feet for one, the wind for another.
This is the only true constant in his life. The only thing that stays the same, no matter where he is, or how he is, or who he is attempting to be in his desperate attempts to act like a normal person.
Normal Harry walks with the crowd underneath, normal Harry maintains a brave face for his boyfriend's sake, doesn't talk about nightmares, doesn't curse his luck. He doesn't cry. He doesn't go away.
Normal Harry doesn't need to do any of that. Because normal Harry is happy. Happy with what he has, content. Normal is fake.
Harry breathes and smiles at the immeasurable relief that comes with being unburdened. Like taking off crisp, uncomfortable dress robes at the end of a long, tiring day.
When he opens his eyes, the smile dies on his lips. There's no sun.
Harry blinks and lowers his arms, turns over the ledge, looks around, blinks again, but the sun is still gone.
The absence is too stark. The sky isn't cloudy, it's not foggy, there is not an eclipse happening. There's just no sun. And in the absence of the sun, there is only darkness.
It's not absolute, and instead of pitch blackness that should logically engulf him, everything is just dimmed and tinted grey. Harry can see a crowd gathering underneath the building. Tiny dots, flocks of people just staring up at him. He can't see their faces, he can't tell them apart. They're just… means to an end.
Harry stumbles in place. He needs to leave. This has never happened before. It's unsettling, it's new. Harry hates new. Harry hates things that are new and not in his control. Because he sure as hell didn't do this. And he's supposed to be in control here.
He wants the sun. He adores it. He had nothing to do with it being gone.
He does what is always required when he wants to leave. He jumps.
He's heard from somewhere that people who jump from buildings, of course, depending on the building's height and structure, don't get to die on impact. He's heard that if the theoretical building is high enough, the person just dies midway. The speed, the height, everything involved dictates a heart attack before the body even reaches the ground.
When he jumps from his rooftop, he never feels the crushing fear of falling to his death. He's merely dropping back into the real world, among the dots. It's exhilarating. It's also comforting in a way.
When Harry jumps now, there's no comfort. There's nothing. There's fucking nothing but the ground, closing in on him with frightening speed, there's that gripping terror that he's heard about, as if his heart gasps and never exhales. Just a long halt. His eyes tear up, because the wind isn't gentle. It's whipping at his face.
It's all so fast.
He doesn't die midway.
He wishes he had.
The pavement cracks against his bones, and he isn't sure what breaks first.
Harry cries out, or he thinks he does. He should. Because he hears the way his bones snapped upon impact. He feels the pain acutely as his skull snaps back. It hurts.
He can't move, he can't breathe and he can't think. He just wants to get out. Get out. Get the fuck out of this nightmare.
This has never happened before, but Harry can't dwindle on that thought either, because every thought is marred with how much pain is radiating from his back. His spine.
His head feels wet, and there are faceless figures looming above him. Well, maybe they have faces, and Harry can't tell through the pain and his bleary eyes.
There aren't supposed to be faces. They're supposed to be meaningless dots.
He closes his eyes, he wills himself out of this. He can. This is his mind. He can do as he pleases. But the pain doesn't go away, it just expands, and he opens his eyes and all he sees is just vague faces and the sky.
The sunless sky.
He hopes he wakes up.
A/N: The following text will contain MAJOR spoilers as to the content of this chapter, proceed with caution.
**spoilers**
**spoilers**
Harry jumps off of a very familiar rooftop, his action is NOT intended as suicide, but rather the consequences is treated as such. If this is triggering to you in any way, feel free to skip the last section of this chapter. We want you guys to feel safe!
We're here for you all if you want to talk, stay safe everyone!